


Revenge Can Lead The Heart Astray

by Glaerdrune



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman Begins (2005)
Genre: Ableist Language, Angst and Humor, Crossdressing, M/M, Multiple Personalities, Organized Crime, POV Third Person, Romance, Supervillains, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glaerdrune/pseuds/Glaerdrune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Crane's brilliant mind was pulled apart and put back together from the moment the toxin entered his system, and for that he wants revenge. Making good his escape from Arkham Asylum, he sets his mind on making Batman pay. But what happens when Bruce Wayne comes into the picture? Crane's revenge quickly turns into something far more complicated...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caught

**Author's Note:**

> (Major overhaul of all previous chapters!! In order to get them up to 2015 standard, so I can perhaps continue with the story ;P Same stuff happening but now it's in words that make sense!)  
> Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own anything. If I did, all the villains would probably be making out right now ;P  
> Cheers and happy reading,  
> Glaerdrune xx

An eerie mist rolled slowly over the glistening, gritty streets of Gotham City. The waning moon was high above the heads of those unlucky enough to be out on this night, its light almost completely blackened by smoke disguised as cloud. Persistent slivers soaked through yet, glancing off of rooftops and the whites of wide, frightened eyes. There was an intoxicating scent on the wind, and the all-encompassing taint of smoke and gunpowder occupied the Narrows. Somewhere, buried deep in the shadows, behind brick and drifting papers in a cold, cold alley, something flickered in the dark. The shimmering moonlight was reflected by the ice held in his eye, as the former Dr Jonathan Crane finally awoke.

'Ever the romantic, aren't you, Jonny?' Scarecrow hissed to his counterpart bitterly, all too aware of the injury their body had sustained. Scarecrow had mounted a policeman's horse on the Doctor's insistence, the young man nagging at the back of his mind of not wanting to be trampled by the throng of scared civilians, but they both knew it was really about how powerful they'd feel astride the wretched beast. So it was that the Scarecrow and his Doctor rode through the streets, delivering a sharper dose fear to Gotham's citizens than anything they'd ever dreamed. But after that little scene with the Dawes woman- he grimaced around the thought- Jonathan had blacked out and Scarecrow was finally given both the opportunity and imperative to take over completely. Instinct declared it safer to hide his little Jonathan away until things- namely, the air- cleared up, and here they were.

 _Be quiet,_ the newly awakened Crane muttered at the corner of Scarecrow's existence, still trying to get used to being pushed to the wrong end of consciousness without the sharp stab of panic. It was an odd sensation, being an onlooker in your own mind, akin to that of standing in a dimly-lit attic room and attempting to peer out of a small, grimy window a few feet away. He felt as if there was a niggling itch in his brain... Only, _he_ was the itch.

'Shush, my dear,' the Scarecrow replied with a sweetened snarl. 'I'll get you out of here soon enough.'

He slowly got to his feet, holding his stomach and coughing madly. His eyebrows furrowed in thought as he leant against the wall for support. He was feeling alarmingly weak. There were electric tremors still coursing through his body. He had to find shelter for them both, and preferably soon.  
Softly the rain began to patter lightly on the ground, swapping the musty smell of the air for one of earthy iron and cold stone. Scarecrow coughed once more, shivering in his soaked clothes. It wasn't all that hard to find abandoned buildings in the Narrows, surely? This place was the worst-managed in the city. Noticing something underfoot, the Scarecrow glanced down at the burlap sack with a satisfied smirk. Laying there, the eyes no longer holding their glow, the mask not as frightening as it had been at the first, it looked lifeless. This was true, in a way. The life had left that mask, that symbol, when the Toxin kicked in. Suppressed sadism had combined with the persona Jonathan took on with his 'patients', and Scarecrow had awoken in complete control. He'd loved every moment of it, of coming into consciousness, of sliding into Jonathan's weakened mind to strengthen and knock down whichever walls he wished, but he'd grown fond of the poor, mad Doctor, and self-preservation was a value shared.  
Now it was time for him to take the initiative, and as the figure staggered through the shadows of the Narrows, he cursed his sleight frame and those skinny spider legs. Eager blue eyes latched on to a nondescript building, all boarded windows and peeling paint, which screamed _shelter._ Scarecrow made up their mind. Breaking with some effort the rusting hinges on the door, he dragged himself over to the corner of the room, and promptly collapsed in an exhausted, sickened heap.

'I've done your work for you, little bird, and now's the time to rest. Sleep tight, Jonny-boy.'

There was no reply.

* * *

A week later, and the stubbornly persistent Crane had just about made the slum habitable. He'd realised early on that he couldn't go back to his apartment yet. No, he was a wanted man, and with the state of the GCPD that would be the first place they'd look. The Doctor held no immediate desire to get caught by the authorities, so he'd made what he could of this temporary setback, but he was admittedly growing quite sick of it. Most of the dust had escaped the rooms when he'd opened some of the windows, and yet Scarecrow held the unnerving suspicion that the various types of spider living with him were both poisonous and powerfully sentient. He swore one of them had stolen a packet of biscuits left lying on a splintered coffee table, though in truth that disappearance had just been the result of one of the rare occasions when Jonathan had his mind and his body to himself.  
There wasn't much to eat- certainly not enough to sustain him, but he supposed he ought to be thankful for anything at all. Jonathan had found scattered cans lying around at first. They were all over the house, playing a game of hide and seek with the unwary newcomers. After that he had come across a refrigerator with a little bit of food still icily cocooned inside. It occurred to him that the house may have had previous occupants, perhaps they'd been subjected to the fear toxin in the streets, and not lived to return home. That had brought the shadow of a smile to his face, and he chuckled softly, dark mood lightening and hunger a little abated with the sweet taste of irony. However, he was beginning to presume that he would starve if he stayed any longer- and he couldn't stay in one place for long. They were criminals now, Scarecrow had reasoned, though it made Crane wonder if one's crime had to be uncovered to be considered a criminal. If a tree falls in a forest...

Speaking of criminals, as the Doctor was gathering his wits about him, and deciding whether or not to venture further out, who should smash right through the door- that had been so lovingly replaced upright against its frame- but the accursed figure of the Batman himself. Crane seethed immediately, clambering up the opposite wall to his feet, his nails digging like claws into the crumbling concrete behind him. He glanced quick as a flash for anything that could be used as a weapon. But Batman was quicker, on him in an instant and pinning his wrists high.

'Crane,' came the gravelly voice in a deadpan poorly masking rage.

'Who's asking?' Jonathan sneered back. He received a hard shove in return.

'Dr. Crane!' ground out the voice once more, clearly unwilling to take any sass.

'What do you want?' the Doctor sighed, feigning boredom, 'Or is this a social visit, Bat-man?'

'You've done bad things, Doctor.'

'Haven't we all?'

'You tried to tear Gotham apart!'

' _Tried_ ,' he laughed in the Batman's face, gesturing wildly to the space around him, 'Oh please, spare me the moral debate, you know I was merely following orders.'

'You knew what you were doing!'

Black Kevlar crushed into poor skinny Crane's chest, causing him to wince and wheeze. Scarecrow tapped him on the metaphorical shoulder in response, pointedly reminding him of his presence.

_Is the Bat bothering you, Jonny? Want me to come out and clip his wings a little?_

Crane acknowledged the Scarecrow, allowing him to take control of the situation with a sigh. He himself had never been a fan of the physical aspects of things, and now he simply had somebody to do it for him. Jonathan knew Scarecrow could be trusted, he _was_ Scarecrow- Or rather, had been, before...  
Ah, yes, before the caped crusader who stood before him had the _nerve_ to spray him with his own fear gas!

Outwardly, Crane's red-rimmed eyes took on an animalistic gleam; suddenly the hair settled messily across his face suddenly made him look wilder, more dangerous. He bit his lip in a feral manner, and when he next spoke the words had a lazy drawl about them reminiscent of old things toying with their prey.

'So what if I did? What's it to _you_ , Ba **t** -man?'

Batman blinked. He noticed the obvious change in something about Dr. Crane. It had been in the air around him, more an altered sense of presence than anything physical. He paused for a moment, anticipating something more, almost nervous.

'I suppose I should thank you, Bat-man,' the stranger wearing Crane's face continued, 'For giving me this life! But that would ruin all the _fun_.'

' **What?** ' Batman hissed through gritted teeth, driving Crane a little further into the wall in the hopes of maybe shaking this odd behaviour out of him; 'Crane! What are you-'

' _Dr. Crane isn't here right now_ ,' Scarecrow echoed helpfully, smirking with teeth, ' _but if you'd like to make an appointment..._ '

Batman couldn't find a reply to that. He found himself instead staring at that wild expression with a feeling of unease settling through him, and in desperation seeking familiar territory, reverted back to his original point:

'You were responsible for the _chaos_ in Gotham last week, for all the deaths and all the damage that was done! You are a criminal, and you deserve to be punished!'

To Jonathan's ears, it sounded like a mantra. He leapt back into the conversation, rebellious and wronged.  
The man's facial expressions twisted for a moment as Scarecrow mentally moved over, and suddenly they were sharing space.

' _We were merely giving to them what they had coming,'_ they both said, hissing the words right back, ' _Oh, you should have been there, Bat-man! The fear, the terror- oh- it was beautiful,_ _Gotham's scum of the streets running so blindly, like the vermin they are underneath!'_

 _We?_ Batman thought, puzzled and slightly frightened. He held tight to Crane's slim wrists, but in his apprehension the force of it drained away.

' _Nobody dared touch us! So much blood, and agony! Oh, and the sound of the screams..._ ' they sang, delighted.

Batman felt a shudder underneath the armor. That voice... It was uncanny, strumming with discord. Disconcerting, _broken_.

'You're out of your mind!'

He took a deep breath.

'Out of your mind. I'm taking you back to Arkham. They'll help you there.'

Crane snorted in surprise, and burst into a fit of laughter. ' _Arkham!_ To become a patient in my _own_ facility, you mean? Ah, well. At least I know I'm in good hands. _'_

'It's what you need!'

'Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?' and suddenly the Doctor sounded fascinated, shrugging on his old profession like a well-worn coat.

'Shut up, Crane!'

'You're not doing this out of selflessness, and you know it, Batman, you know it. Your desire to fight crime is rooted in the _need_ to punish every criminal in Gotham, single-handedly! To prove _to yourself_ that you can. It's not your love for this city, or these pitiful people, it's a personal vendetta against those who break the law, and it's going to drive you crazy one day. _Ha!_ C-r- _azy!_ And you know _what?_ I think that serves you just right for what you did to me!'

'Shut _up!'_

'Do you have any _idea_  what it is to cope with hallucinations, Batman? _Do you?_  Hmm, no, you won't yet, but that's _fiiine_ ,' he sneered, and it was all Scarecrow this time.  
'You will, soon enough. _Justice will be served_ , and then you may even get to be my first patient! Won't that be _delightful?_ '

 **'I said**   **shut up!** ' Batman yelled, punching Crane a little harder in the face than was strictly necessary. The dull thrum of regret only heightened when it became apparent that he'd managed to knock the man out cold; placing his hand on the unconscious Doctor's jumpy pulse told him it was probably for the best.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily, he hoisted the criminal up over his shoulder, shocked to find that he could do so with great ease. Jonathan must have weighed about the same as a large duvet; the man seriously needed some nourishment. Batman was certain the Asylum would provide.

Looking down at Dr. Crane again, he frowned. The man certainly didn't look the type for organised crime, and he had no recorded history with it. His features were too fragile, his skin soft and oddly pale, like he'd never seen a day of sun. His frame was slight; one hit and the guy had fainted, God damn it. Batman wondered how a person as perceivably quiet as Crane had ended up even meeting a man of Ra's al Ghul's calibre, let alone _working_ for him by producing those... those chemicals.

Shaken too by the words that had been thrown at him, Batman carried the unconscious man to the parked Tumbler, where he could look forward to a pair of handcuffs and a one-way trip to the rehabilitation centre and detainment facility for the criminally insane, the recently renovated Arkham Asylum. The Bat was silent for the whole journey, the other's accusations replaying through his head, though thankfully due to the speed of the Tumbler and the proximity of the asylum, it was not a very long one.

* * *

 Jonathan Crane woke up just as an unreasonably large syringe was poised over his forearm, about to be slammed into a vein. He leapt up immediately, screaming, and shrieked at the doctors;

' _Get that **fucking** thing away from me!'_

He was staring at the point on the end of the needle with a single-minded intensity, watching the bead of liquid there with a sickening feeling that sank to the pit of his stomach.  
 _So this is what it's like on the receiving end._

The Doctor thrashed wildly, struggling in vain to be free of his straitjacket and only hurting himself in the process.

'Relax, Crane... Everything is going to be okay,' one of the assistants reassured him as he was held down more firmly, but when needle penetrated skin the sound that Crane made was almost inhuman _._

'No it's not! It's _not! Batman's gonna pay, by fucking God- I swear he'll... pay...'_

Jonathan and his Scarecrow repeated the phrase like a mantra in their drugged state, biting it out furiously until their vision clouded over, enveloping them in the claustrophobic darkness of unconsciousness once more.

_To be continued._


	2. Flight

Bruce Wayne, billionaire, woke with a start, the piercing image of bright blue eyes and the sharp curve of a cruel smile lingering at the back of his mind. But like all fleeting dreams, it was long gone before he was fully awake and aware enough to wonder what it had been.

'Morning Master Wayne!' forced the voice on the other side of his lids in all-too-familiar Cockney diction, vigorously shaking him.

Bruce groaned, opening them to the bright light of day. The tinny sound of a far-away television faded into the background, worsening his headache, and he quietly clenched his teeth.

'Wha' time is it?' he grumbled to Alfred, the same way he asked every morning, and getting the same answer.

'Six-thirty,' was the amused reply, 'And if you don't get up now, you're going to be late.'

Wincing, he sat up and stretched, ignoring the ache in every joint and muscle in favour of a yawn.

Shaking his head, Alfred continued, 'You're meeting with the head of the Milestone Corporation regarding your charity work and future business plans, remember?'

The butler laid a freshly-pressed shirt on the tabletop, along with the rest of his charge's attire for the day.

'Yeah, I remember,' Bruce frowned, wondering why he didn't.

'Master Wayne, Lucius has also requested to see you this afternoon; I believe he's concluded the matter you gave to him.'

'Ah, excellent.'

Perking up at the notion, he finally stood, meandering over to his pile of clothes as the sun hit him in shuttered stripes.

'- _And_ he's repaired your suit,' the butler added dryly, raising a brow in the only display of disapproval he would give.

'Forgive me for saying, Sir, but I think he deserves more appreciation than what you're showing 'im, 'cause from the state it was in, that is no mean feat.'

'Yes, yes. I'll be sure to thank him later.'

Alfred patted down the bed covers neatly, and made to leave. When he reached the door he paused, turning on his heels.

'Bruce?'

'What is it, Alfred?'

Alfred gestured to his eyes, barely-concealed mirth showing through for the first time that morning.

'You probably ought to wash that off before your meeting.'

Bruce brought his hands to his own eyes; the fingertips came back considerably blackened.

_The greasepaint. Damn, third time this week he'd forgotten to remove it before collapsing into bed._

The billionaire went hastily to the en suite, to rectify this mistake and get changed into the expensive suit; in his mind, it was really just another form of armour. His thoughts wandered briefly to the clear-up in the Narrows, still in quite a state after the crisis a month or two past. 

* * *

Three months. _Three months in this hell-hole._ And what had that done to help him? Nothing! All it had given him were sleepless nights, aching muscles, and inexplicable cravings, all of which he could have predicted from the first few days. The other doctors just didn't get it; he wasn't meant to be here! Granted, there was one new occupant in his head, but neither of them were muttering paranoid theories about who really built the pyramids, or any of _that_. They had accepted it enough to free him from the straitjacket, but... Jonathan didn't think he would be getting out of the cell any time soon.  
Still, it was rather amusing to watch the workers react to their former boss wearing the ugly orange jumpsuit of an inmate. It seemed as though some of them were still worried for their jobs when talking to him, forgetting how much higher they were, hierarchically. Of course, others who were less well-inclined made sure to remind him of it at every single opportunity, but as for the newer Arkham employees, those fools were easily disturbed, easily thrown off-course by his patronising tone, his educated, cynical comments, and the practice-perfected arch of a brow. It was almost worth the twisted and confused expressions on their faces to be stuck in his own asylum for so long.

Almost.

'I don't belong here,' he reiterated bitterly, 'I'm a _psychologist_. I could tell them things about the human brain they wouldn't even imagine!'

 _But they aren't smart enough to know that, are they?_  the Scarecrow put forward, _To them, you're just another madman, stuck with the rest of these crazies._

There was a silence, the empty void left behind when both entities paused to think. Then Scarecrow eased in with, _Well, we'll have to take matters into our own hands, won't we Jonny? You know this place; sure you can figure a way out._

'Will you shut up?' Jonathan snapped, out loud, 'As if I haven't been trying to do just that. I literally can't hear myself _think_ with you in my head.'  
He tugged at strands of hair irritably, ignoring the pangs of apprehension. He should have known his own personality would come to grate on his nerves, after this long in confinement.

 _I'm only trying to help, little bird,_ theScarecrow crooned. Admittedly, he hadn't been much help at all over the past months. In the end they'd made a deal: Jonathan would get the daylight hours if Scary could take the nights (or whatever ungodly hour Lights Out actually signified in the outside world). The arrangement suited them both, taking turns to play Doctor. On the rare occasions that Crane had ample time to himself, he contemplated whether or not he may have been too repressive before the toxin had entered his system, resulting in this mental divide. Certainly, Crow was more like a voice he was finally paying attention to than a separate personality, and the voice was his own. But surely a character complex enough to come to disagreement with him, on more than one occasion, was more than a mere outlet for his own repressed urges?    
He briefly pondered over Freud's theories, of the Ego, Superego and the Id. It was believable enough that the toxin had splintered that somehow, fracturing the links that held it all together- perhaps the terror of his visions pressing too hard on certain nerves, snapping his composure like a twig- but then, did that make Scarecrow a representation of his baser instinct? Was this really what the Good Doctor had been like before the split, on the inside, beneath layers and layers of polite propriety? And if so, what did that make Jonathan now?

Going further, the Scarecrow appeared to be both the most primal and most vulnerable of the two. There were times when he swore to protect the both of them, and times when Scary was... Well, scared. Of everything. The screaming at night was probably the main reason behind why this cold, dark asylum cell was still their home, the reason Crane preferred to blame being, of course, _Batman_. He grimaced at the memory of that flying rodent, putting him in his predicament. The man behind _that_ mask must have some serious psychological problems of his own to be driven to such extremes.

'That's Gotham for you,' sighed the former Doctor Crane, shaking his head. He had been giving the subject some considerable thought lately, mainly to pass the wretchedly tedious hours in solitary confinement, and had a few favourite speculative theories about the mystery man's real motives. Now, however, his attention was directed on the most likely means of escape, for he missed the grey skies almost as much as his dignity. He craved fresh food that his taste buds wouldn't immediately reject, and the scent of coffee in the early hours when all the city were still dreaming in the dark. He longed for distant and detached respect, deference, to be  _feared_ again, oh, what a feeling that had been. 

Doctor Jonathan Crane had never been so sick of his workplace in his life.

_We've got to get out of here._

* * *

Alarm bells wailed eerily through the halls. One of the patients had escaped.

Jonathan looked up, shocked for a moment, and then sighed bitterly, tapping his fingers on the edge of his rock-solid mattress. Someone had figured it out before he'd had the chance.

_Wish that was me._

'You and me both, Crow.' _  
_

He stared at the floor, eyes tracing the now-achingly-familiar cracks and stains that littered the off-white travesty. In the fuzzy focus of his sight without his glasses, he could just about make out some of the unstable scribblings of the previous occupant. After a few minutes' reading, he rather wished that he couldn't.

The alarms increased in number and urgency, and now Crane could hear the Asylum guards shuffle past his cell door anxiously, eager to sort out this mishap. The sudden crackle of the overhead speakers almost drowned out the low, husky voice accompanying it.

'Attention everyone: a dangerous patient has escaped from the West wing. All attendants to Section 32. I repeat, all attendants to Section 32.'

Funny; even as former head of the Asylum, he'd never heard that voice before. He stood up, peering through the slit in the door curiously.   
The guards could be seen running out from the East Wing of the Asylum, where Crane was situated.   
There was a sudden long beep, a loud click, and _every door to every cell_ in the east wing of Arkham was unlocked and creaking slowly open. Tension mounted for an unbearable moment's pause, and then, the gruff sound of intense and cutting laughter burst from the intercom like a smoker's cough, initiating the escape of all those who had the means and the desire. It took a split second for the wide open exit to register in Jonathan's mind, and in an instant he leapt up from his position, running past the other fleeing patients as though his life- certainly his freedom- depended on it.

Jonathan and his Scarecrow seized the moment, with both hands.

Doctor Crane was neither broad nor particularly strong, no good at pushing his way through the crowd, but his slightness allowed him the advantage of being able to slip through every gap presented to him. And of course, he knew the building well. He knew all the short-cuts and the corridors, and he was so close that he could taste Gotham's polluted air on the tip of his tongue, heavy with sweetened rain.

* * *

Nobody noticed much in the Narrows, because generally it was better not to notice, and avoid the process of natural selection that eliminated the curious a long time ago. So it was that nobody noticed the orange-clad men and women spilling out into the street from behind Arkham's doors. Nobody noticed the skinny young thing, slipping into the shadows of an alley with a determined look of both elation and fear on his face.  
Nobody noticed the formidable Jonathan Crane make his getaway, muttering to himself, or perhaps someone he imagined he was talking to;

' _Somebody's_ going to pay for this...'

_To be continued._


	3. Cover

Crane's euphoric rejoicing was very quickly displaced by the emptiness of uncertainty. He stopped, stood, caught his breath, taking refuge in the shade of an alley that eluded the light of early evening. The violet and vermillion of the fast-fading sun cast strange shadows across the man's gaunt face as he surveyed the frantic scene. A sea of orange jumpsuits- some faces familiar, others not so much- scattered into the Narrows, running through the streets. Plenty of the escapees stood stock still, as unsure of what to do with themselves as Crane, while the more unfortunate inmates were curled up on the hard ground, or anxiously scratching at their own skin and murmuring hoarse gibberish to calm themselves.

The Doctor did not tarry long. It was decided that he was still at great risk of discovery, and his instincts once again told him to find a more permanent hideout. His old hunt was off limits as a long-term solution; after the whole incident in the Narrows, and the implications of his involvement, investigations were sure to have been carried out- _if_ the Gotham police force had enough incentive. They weren't exactly _reliable_ when it came to crime in this city. Nevertheless, the authorities would also be alerted of the breakout soon enough, and after all, that damned Bat had found him in an _abandoned building_. The Rodent's adept skill more than made up for the lack of a threat posed by the Gotham police force, and Jonathan was certainly unwilling to risk a second encounter considering the nature and consequences of his last.

Scarecrow scoffed at Jonathan's logical debate, agreeing all the same. The alternate identity proved his essential and influential addition to Jonathan's life by adding input of his own to the mental planning. Indeed, they'd have to disappear, take extra precautions against being found. Perhaps infiltrating the lowest levels of society, hiding far under the radar, would be an adequate plan. Jonathan had managed well enough beneath his quiet Doctor persona before, Scarecrow mused, and it would surely work again.

This was fairly accurate. The stable and authoritative Doctor Crane of Arkham Asylum had been the true mask, disguising all that Scarecrow had emancipated. Scarecrow had been liberation.

Oh yes, Crane would have to reclaim his scant belongings, in whatever state they might be, and find somewhere else, somewhere inconspicuous and preferably _very_ far away to dwell. With one last, defiant look to the dubious institute that had somehow managed to both make and break his career, Dr. Jonathan Crane made his way amongst the countless fugitives, thanking the heavens and praising one man's need for chaos.

The former Doctor raced back to the one-bedroom apartment that he had inhabited during his glorious days as Arkham's head. Scarecrow chattered excitedly on the way, about the escape and the Bat and, God save him, birds, and jittery Jonathan found himself jumping at a couple of unfamiliar shadows along the memorised route. When he had started his work with Ra's Al Ghul he had picked a simple, cheap apartment in the Narrows to inhabit, both for its proximity to Arkham and its anonymity-it wouldn't do to have anyone tracing the drugs trade to a prestigious house that they _knew_ belonged to certain powerful people. He also hadn't been one for unnecessary luxuries, confident as he was in the mind's power over the body. It _was_ a considerably small living space, but it had suited his needs and purpose for a time.

 _I think I'm going to miss this place,_ Scarecrow tittered.

'Oh, do be quiet.'

Crane had begun to walk towards the entrance of the building when Scary hissed,

_Don't use the front door! That would prove rather unwise._

After a little contemplation and eventual conclusion, Jonathan noiselessly circled the block and tried a particularly flimsy window with caution, falling through and landing on his faded paisley carpet with a sharp _bump._

* * *

 

'Ah Mister Wayne, there you are! I almost thought you'd forgotten me!' Lucius Fox laughed in greeting to his employer.

'Good afternoon, Lucius,' Bruce Wayne acknowledged, dipping his head to the older man.

'Good afternoon to _you_ , Mister Wayne.'

'So...' Wayne drawled, his bored billionaire persona fitting him like a glove.

'So?' Fox echoed.

 _'So_ , were you able to find any information on the individuals that I asked about?'

Fox handed him a small number of paper print-outs.  
'From the very best,’ he grinned, tapping his nose in a knowing gesture.  
Bruce flicked through the pages, skim-reading a passage or two.  
'Thanks,’ the billionaire replied after a moment, ‘This is great, Lucius. Exactly the kind of stuff I was looking for. And did you get anything on the cases of theft?'  
'Oh I'm sorry, Mister Wayne,’ the elder continued, looking more disappointed than before, ‘But that sort of thing isn't of much interest to any of the organizations where they occurred. Rather inconvenient, really, but they don't think the theft of mundane items like those can be too important, and the news sites are far more concerned with the present than the past. You've a keen eye to spot the similarities at all- It might be in the old newspaper records that they keep at the main library, though. I would’ve gone myself, y’know, but the tear in that Kevlar you made this time was pretty darn hard to fix.'

He shrugged, smiling enigmatically, adding, 'And besides, as a follow-up to the Wayne Foundation's generous donations to the City Library, it'll be good for your image and for the Press if the airheaded playboy you pretend to be decides to read a book for once, instead of the label on the bottle in his hand.'

'Billionaires like me don't need to read books,' laughed the playboy with mock-indignation, to which Fox's friendly smile widened.

'Well then, Mister Wayne, I'm sure you can prove that to the rest of them.'

Bruce laughed again, and then his tone darkened slightly.

'Listen, Lucius. I'm sorry about what happened, before. If the circumstances hadn't called for it-'

'Oh, that's all right with me,' replied Lucius Fox in a forgiving manner, 'You righted it, didn't you?' There was a long pause that both men tried and failed to fill, striking a discord in an otherwise friendly conversation.

'...Now, is there anything else you'll be needing? Decided to try your hand at any other sports? _Extreme Ironing_ , perhaps?'

'As a matter of fact...' Bruce retorted, smiling cheekily. Lucius tutted.

'You billionaires and your toys. I'll be sure to inform you when something that might interest you comes up. And in the meantime, I'll keep working on those confounded riddles.'

'You do that, Lucius.'

Bruce got up to leave, remembering something at the last moment.

'Oh and, thanks for the repairs. I'll come to collect it on Monday.'

‘All right, all right,' Fox dismissed with a wave of his hand. 'I'm not your dry-cleaner.’  
The playboy shook his head as he walked to the door, smiling to himself at the man’s no-nonsense nature.  
‘Remember, you'd better look after yourself, Bruce!' his friend called out after him, 'I'm not sure that the Suit's entirely resistant to your fund-raisers!'

The head of Wayne Enterprises couldn't help chuckling at that- thinking back to the various parties he'd attended to keep up appearances, that was actually some pretty sound advice.

* * *

 

Stumbling about in his old apartment, Crane resisted the intense urge to scream his frustration to the air.

They'd utterly wrecked it. Those law enforcement idiots had thrown his belongings about like so much trash, and taken not only everything of significant value, but- at first glance- all of his toxin too, his only means of self-defence. The rooms had been bare enough to begin with, for Jonathan was often efficient and seldom sentimental; now, however, they looked positively barren. The clothing, books and scant furniture scattered about shabbily somehow made the apartment look _emptier._ Doctor Crane took pride in his skills of organisation and planning, and the current mess was positively killing his already frayed nerves. At least his ARkham cell was blessedly free of all this clutter!

The apartment's former inhabitant located with measured relief his smart grey coat-once neatly and lovingly creased at the seams, now tossed carelessly in a heaped pile-and hesitantly checked the inside of his wallet.

Nothing but memories and dust lay between the cold flaps of leather.

'Those _bastards!_ '

_Talk about a dishonest police force._

'Shut up!' hissed the Doctor, furious. He whirled around on his heels, ducking down, and slid an arm under the bed, feeling for something that had been tied discreetly to the weak support planks.

 _Thank **fuck** they didn't take this, at least_ _..._

After rifling through the remains of his old life for half an hour, growing more and more irritated by the second, Jonathan had managed to discard his jumpsuit and reclaim a few tattered items of clothing, a book on Advanced Mathematics as applied to Chemistry (another one on Pharmacology had been left behind: he needed it no longer, for he'd memorised it all), a small sum of stashed-away cash money- from the Ra's al Ghul trade, naturally- and the fear toxin he'd devotedly retrieved from beneath the bed. The sound of distant sirens brought both personalities back to the gritty reality of their current situation; the high-pitched droning wail made Crane jump, biting his lip with anxiety. Hastily placing what he had salvaged into a small canvas bag, Crane and Scarecrow made their swift exit.

The Doctor clambered promptly down the emergency stairs, sliding on the wet pavement in his last remaining pair of shoes and skidding into an alleyway that, for once, did not seem to herald certain death. In this manner, the man made his escape, stashing the precious bag carefully in one of his old secure locations en route, though keeping the canister pressed close to his breast, and praying that the trade spot hadn't been found by any other curious criminal during his lengthy absence. It would be too much to hope for successful escape from the police-ridden area if he were dragging all his worldly possessions behind him. On top of that, he still hardly had a place to settle for the night, which took top priority. There was no time to dwell on what he was leaving behind, but no matter; he would be back for them soon enough.

_To be continued.  
(Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel)_

 


	4. Secure

'I-I don't know nothin' about no small-time upstart in these parts, I swear, just put me dowow _oooown!_ '

'You're sure you haven't heard anything,' came the low, gruff reply from the man in the cowl, who had decided to forgo the Library in lieu of doing some additional research during his familiar nightly routine.  
The caped crusader shook the terrified man a little bit, and a handful of stolen wallets fell from within the folds of his jacket, colliding with the dampened streets so far below with the wet splats of ruined leather.

'Because there's a jail cell with your name on it, _Jones_ , and it'll be even worse for you if you don't answer me.'

The petty thug and occasional dealer was lifted higher above the grubby slums, to his great dismay, resulting in his shrill vibrato cries of protest raising a whole octave.

'Oh God, _oh God_ , okay okay I'll come quietly, geez. But I swear I ain't heard about no puny thief like that, nobody bothers with those greens 'acause they jus' get in the way of things around here, Jesus Christ jus' don't _hurt_ me, Bats.'

There was a pause, as if Batman were processing the given information and weighing up its validity, before he acquiesced and pulled back, allowing the shaking criminal to swing freely.

'It's not me you have to worry about,' he growled in annoyance, 'You have your own crimes to pay for. You're an enemy of the law, and there are _always_ consequences.'

The vigilante ended his sentence with a rough cough and a dramatic swish of his cape as he disappeared from the scene, leaving the poor man behind to dangle precariously.

The man swiftly shifted from terror to defeat at the sound of the sirens, as a cop car emerged from the distance.

'Aw, _crap_.'

* * *

Jonathan and Scarecrow's flawed, fiery desire to end Batman quickly and violently and _immediately_ was decided too hasty and emotive to be rational; acting now could get him killed. Vengeance the like of which he truly wished to visit upon the caped crusader needed time, proper planning and structure in order to be successfully carried out. He should worry about his own wellbeing first, and that fucking rodent second. The Bat could wait.

Living arrangements for the moment were horrendous; expenses were covered by the meagre amount of money left around Crane's former apartment. Wishing to escape notice until he could get back on his feet and resume his operations, any large bank withdrawals were out of the question. Crane had answered an advertisement in a shop window concerning very cheap two-room tenancy by a bitter and articulate old landlady, who but for her kind manner towards him would have met with an untimely end, reminding him as she did of someone very close to home. As it was, her near-deafness proved useful to him; she was either oblivious to or easily accepting of the occasional night terrors, and the muffled screaming. She didn't notice the sudden shortage of her daily medication, either.  
He was, thankfully, the only one apparently as desperate for such deteriorated housing; other tenants of the apartments blew by for a day or two, leaving again almost immediately and never extending their stay for long enough to irritate him. In return for the adequate living space, the Doctor would perform mundane tasks for his landlady, fiddling with the concentration in the soil of her potted plants, forming breathtaking compounds that put the average drain cleaner to shame, and generally keeping to himself. In her gratitude she would sometimes break his diet of ready-made plastic-coated meals by making him something even more godawfully tasteless, often leaving him thankful for what little income he could scrounge to buy the aforementioned microwavable foods. Jonathan had tried to cook his own meals in the past, but had quickly learned that though cookery appeared on the surface to be an extensively crude form of chemistry, when he tried to apply his knowledge of this to any use the results were… less than pleasant.

As for the issue of Crane's appearance: a self-inflicted and deliberately lopsided haircut-there was nothing better to focus the eyes away from the face-had been dyed a stark and hasty black, and with clear knowledge of his own most noticeable features, Crane had invested in a pair of dark coloured contacts. He didn't need his glasses for much more than reading; they had been an aspect of the typical studious Doctor persona that he had tried to replicate, if not embody, during his time at the top, and so getting rid of them was for the most part a wise move.

By the end of the ordeal Jonathan was, although still fairly recognisable, at least not _immediately_ and _obviously_ so.  
Crane found he could function almost as normal in everyday situations, with only the occasional internal remark from Scarecrow reminding him of his extra bat in the belfry. Apart from the jumpiness and occasionally morbid comments, there were few outward signs of inner turmoil and the lasting impression that the fear toxin had made on his oh-so-delicate mind. The hallucinations had not stopped, but he was slowly getting used to them, and was becoming sadly hardened by the half-imagined caws and flutters in the darkest hours of night. Prone to bouts of insomnia, this was another aspect that the Doctor had grown accustomed to, and he did a lot of his deeper thinking and planning in the terrifying early hours of morning, while Scarecrow took his turn and huddled childlike under clammy, scratchy sheets.

His hopes for revenge had only grown with each passing day, the young man reminding himself of the cause of his current predicament, and in those idle hours had talked over strategies, and possible alliances-with those who had been similarly affected by the flying rodent's misguided sense of personal and self-inflicted justice.  
Oh, Batman had his enemies. A plethora of them. Some of which, due to his time both at and _in_ Arkham, he had more than a passing acquaintance with. There was no end to the selection Crane had to choose from. Pamela had her charms, though Jonathan had noticed it mostly in her scientific knowledge. He hadn't seen much of her from the wrong side of the asylum bars, but when he was still a practising Arkham doctor their private sessions had proved quite the thrill. Jervis Tetch had irritated him to no end, and many of his amicable conversations with Harvey Dent had been ruined by the Scarecrow's spats with Two-Face. Cobblepot didn't seem too happy to see him in the staple orange, after their previous confidential talks concerning the Penguin's obsession with birds and the sorrows of his broken childhood. And Killer Croc, that petty thug… well _he_ was hardly even worth thinking about. Then there was the Joker, who seemed to have kicked off quite a lot of fuss at his big debut, and was most likely the godsent cause of the Arkham breakout. He seemed another fair candidate and worthy ally, if Jonny kept wary of his idiosyncrasies and… other personal habits.

Costumed villains aside, Doctor Crane still retained some of the older, more conventional contacts, despite Ra's' unfortunate demise. It should not prove too difficult to formulate a plan, with a mind like his, access to some of his old resources and a handful of such _choice_ associates.

* * *

'Master Wayne, I think you should take a look at this.'

The dedicated butler handed his employer the morning's newspaper, turned crisply to the page headlined, **'Arkham's inmates out again, many still not found.'**

Bruce sighed heavily, his head hanging with the weight of the revelation. A lesser man would be inclined to sob at the amount of work wasted, but at this point the playboy billionaire and his weary alter ego were more than used to the ups and downs of crime fighting.

'Thanks, Alfred,' he replied, before turning his attention to the printed sheet.

'The breakout occurred at approximately four o'clock on Tuesday morning, and is believed to have been brought about by fluctuations in the building's electricity causing some of the locks and emergency measures to malfunction. The matter is being looked into currently, and so far counted among the alleged escapees is the tragic former Arkham employee Doctor Crane (full story of the Gotham Narrows debacle covered in a previous issue), as well as a couple of crazed ex-mob members, the formidable Pamela Isley, Jervis Tetch, former attorney and unfortunate burn victim Harvey Dent, the eccentric Oswald Cobblepot and many other lesser-known patients, all of whom were being kept in separate cells in the west wing of the building, the partition for the criminally insane, when the security failed. Though it is thought that most of the escaping criminals have been confined to the Narrows, it would be ill-advised to leave your homes until these dangerous men and women have been found.'

Bruce ran a pained hand across his face, groaning with the anticipated exertion of capturing the criminals.

'Christ,' he exclaimed to himself, 'You guys are like batarangs. I stick you in Arkham where you all belong, and some freak just lets you back out again!'

Damn it, he would have to be on extra alert when he did his nightly rounds. He would not allow such dangerous criminal scum to roam _his_ streets.

'Alfred, make sure the Suit is ready tonight. I'm afraid I might need to focus on getting these loons back behind bars.'

'Of course, sir. You can always count on me, sir.'

* * *

The days were hellish for Dr. Jonathan Crane. A lot of time was spent being decidedly bitter over his current situation, and at having to interact with such crude forms of human existence. At Arkham his expertise had garnered much respect from the orderlies, and in the Narrows his cruel streak had kept his henchman loyal, but what was there for him now? Exiled from his prestigious position to the torment of the outside world, he was judged by appearance over intellect, and he knew better than anyone that his appearance wasn't worth much. People cajoled him on the street, muggers deemed him an easy target, and society in general refused to accept him back into the fold. Like the bullies he had sworn to be rid of, they called him a queer and a scrawny waste of space.

Unlike his earlier years, however, Dr. Crane was more than comfortable with abetting any would-be attackers using vicious chemical means, and Scarecrow had a hoot turning potential threats into terrified test subjects.

Not that he had any breakthroughs to test out these days. It had been a hassle gathering enough manpower to get back into the drug trade to begin with, a move crucial in continuing his research, and getting his hands on the equipment needed for experimentation was proving incredibly difficult. His last reliable chemistry set had been destroyed in a search for evidence, and the Arkham sewer system, his old base of operations, was now understandably off-limits. There had been talk of Poison Ivy among the criminals under his employ, and if such rumours of Pamela's escape rang true, then there was no doubt she was a likely candidate to get him what he wanted. Indeed, as a botanist deeply involved in cross-species genetics, it was more than likely she would be able to get her hands on some basic essentials through use of her extensive contacts. Jonathan made a mental note to have a meeting arranged between the two of them; he was sure she would grant him this favour in return for the promise of Batman's hide.

For now, his business dealings were few and far between, mostly kept to the nights; conducted under cover of darkness and with a special degree of secrecy. As such, Crane found himself in the most detestable position of needing a legitimate job, if he ever wanted to get anywhere. A more stable income would allow him to procure supplies, and a respectable, if modest, career would keep him out of the eyes of the law for at least a little while longer. Crane had enquired about possible employment at several different retailers and a library, the latter of which kept him on for further inspection. After a short (and, of course, totally fabricated) interview in which he portrayed himself as the shy, kind-hearted introvert 'Andrew Phillips' through expert use of body language, he was now the Assistant Librarian at Gotham Public Library

It had only been two weeks on the job, but he liked the solitude. Nobody bothered him when he was working, not like that awful Rachel Dawes had all those times before. He even found the spare time to brush up on his chemistry when the place was quiet, which, in a way, was very often indeed. Scarecrow kept his distance during those times, crooning softly and petting dear Jonathan to make his presence known as the man flicked through pages in a dead calm. During moments like that he grew thankful for his other half's existence, banishing the shadows at the corners of his mind and making himself at home there, wearing Jonathan's crazy smirk like a second skin (just as Jonathan wore his).

Scarecrow simply tried to find a way to occupy his time. He hated the drag of the everyday, entertaining cruel fantasies and sometimes even vivid hallucinations of defeating Gotham's finest while his Jonny flashed them a falsely winning smile, yes please and thank you sir.

To combat this newfound stuffy boredom Scarecrow even helped Jonathan shelve, though somewhat detrimentally in order of obscure personal interest rather than the standard Dewey system. The books would be shoved back onto the shelves with perhaps more vigour than was necessary, and Crane could be seen to be muttering under his breath while performing the task; the only clear sign of his less than stable mental health.

He was currently sorting through the old records and newspapers kept for research by the facility, chuckling with a sense of pride at the article about his escapade in the Narrows, and relief that the press had left his picture out of the paper. There was a small degree of hope as he filed things away that he would find something that could help him get out of this unfortunate situation, though the possibility was far from likely.

Sliding yet another piece of print back into the space provided, an adjacent article caught his eye... something about the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne, all those years ago. Not one to normally follow celebrity scandal, he had only a vague peripheral knowledge of the Wayne family, and had not personally been involved in arranging the recently generous donations to Arkham Asylum presented by the Wayne Foundation. No, he had been far too busy in his work with the 'patients,' and then busier still _as_ a patient, to be up-to-date in the slightest with Gotham's favourite tragedy. The article however intrigued him, fascinated as he was by tricky psychological cases. Though not having seen the one surviving member of the billionaire family since his miraculous return, he had overheard rumour of- what was it, Brian? Robert? Benjamin?-Wayne's escapades from the giggling Arkham nurses, in between callously rejecting their uncouth advances. It seemed strange for such a violently orphaned child to appear so carefree as an adult with no outward sign of psychological trauma, especially one with the resources and social status available for some serious substance abuse. The residual damage must be internalised, but how did it manifest? It was true that Wayne's fear of abandonment and commitment issues were displayed through his reputation as a playboy, but he must have another outlet of some kind for what was no doubt an ingrained, constant anger at the people who-

Jonathan was cut off from his increasingly gleeful deconstruction of Wayne's psyche by a clipped cough at the front desk, and he looked over exasperatedly, setting the newspaper down and filing the Wayne case away in his head for another time. Sense told him there was more to the man than what was shown to the public eye.

 _Everyone's got skeletons in the closet, Johnny; us more than most_ , piped up Scarecrow, before erupting into laughter.

At Scarecrow's input, Crane merely sighed, shushing him with a click of his tongue as he moved back to the desk to greet the visitor.

The visitor in question, one Bruce Wayne to be exact, looked rather surprised at the lack of recognition from the young man at the desk. He had already tried to fend off several giddy library-goers to make it to the helpdesk, and had been bracing himself for another fawning fanboy getting in the way of anything productive.  
The billionaire raised an eyebrow at the assistant librarian's unexpectedly disinterested attitude, who, when he bothered to look up from the main console, was looking down his nose at him as if through a pair of glasses.  
The man twisted his full, pouting lips into a wry smile, tilting his head to observe Bruce as one would observe an unwanted house guest, condescension and distain evident in his eyes.

'Is there... something I can do for you?'

_To be continued.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> So hey this is a fic that I've been working on (believe it or not, I still am!). It will probably only get updated once in a blue moon (which translates to, whenever I'm not busy) but here's the unfinished work for now. Though it may have started out as Nolanverse, the story in my head is now more a milkshake mix of all the movies and a video game or two, with the '60s TV series thrown in for kicks (because West Wayne is best Wayne).
> 
> Keep an eye out for more updates!


End file.
